


A Favor

by LennaNightrunner



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Complete, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LennaNightrunner/pseuds/LennaNightrunner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris shows up bloody at the Hawke Estate to reluctantly ask Hawke for healing. Hawke obliges, and then some!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Favor

**Author's Note:**

> Belated Secret Santa gift for [Scarylady](http://scarylady.dreamwidth.org/)!

The expertly carved wood of the front door made a satisfying, solid kind of sound as the metal knuckles of Fenris’s gauntlet rapped against it. Footsteps from inside echoed off the stone floors. Most likely that dwarf trader Hawke kept around for no discernable reason. Hopefully he wouldn’t talk Fenris to death before he bled out in the entrance hall.

But it was Hawke who opened the door, and he was fully armored, halfway through cinching the strap he used to secure his staff to his back from the looks of it. He raised his eyebrows at Fenris in surprise.

“Hello.”

“Are you going out?” Fenris stepped back from the doorway to let Hawke pass. “I can come back later.” Assuming he didn’t faint on his way to finding another healer or a potion. This was a _brilliant_ plan.

“It can wait. Come in.”

Fenris went inside, followed by Hawke. He looked around warily, expecting the dwarf to ambush them.

“You’re the only one here?”

Hawke nodded. “Why, have you got something for my eyes only?” He smiled in that way that always made Fenris’s face feel hot.

“In a way.” Fenris sat down on a nearby bench and unbuckled his chestpiece, trying not to wince as he did so. When he had freed himself from it he removed his belt, unfastened his thick tunic, and lifted his shirt to reveal the reason for his impromptu visit. Hawke’s smile vanished.

“Maker, Fenris, what did you _do_?”

The concern in the man’s voice was somehow a small consolation, even if Fenris did feel like an idiot. His pride had told him that bandaging the knife wound he had received the previous day would be sufficient. The blood soaking through those bandages was evidence to the contrary.

“I was stabbed,” he said irritably.

“Clearly.” Hawke sat down next to Fenris and began carefully unwrapping the bandages. Unfortunately, that removed what little clotting had formed over the wound, and the absence of the pressure made it begin to bleed again.

“One of these days your stubbornness is going to get you killed,” he said casually as he pressed his palms against Fenris’s side, which was bleeding rather impressively now. Fenris ignored him in favor of gritting his teeth against the pain.

“I must say, though…” Hawke smirked, though his eyes were fixed on his hands as he worked. “Red suits you. I’m almost jealous. Blood clashes horribly with my hair. That’s the main reason I try so hard not to get stabbed.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Fenris muttered in response to Hawke’s earlier comment, then hissed through his teeth as healing magic made the wound painfully hot while it knit his flesh back together.

“If you die?” Hawke snorted. “If you really didn’t care whether you lived or died,” Hawke said as he wet a scrap of the bandaging with icy water conjured in his palm and began wiping the blood away from Fenris’s skin, “then you would’ve been dead long ago.”

Fenris shifted experimentally, breathing a sigh of relief when he felt only tingling where excruciating pain had been minutes ago. He readjusted his shirt, refastened his tunic, and began buckling his chestpiece and belt back on.

“Give me your hand,” said Hawke. He extended his own hand, and Fenris eyed him suspiciously.

“Why?”

“Because you’ve got frostbite in three of your fingers, and I need you to be able to hold your sword if we’re going to be killing more blood mages any time soon.”

Frostbite? Fenris cursed under his breath. It must have been that mage who had been shooting _ice_ at him yesterday. He’d been so preoccupied with the wound in his side that he’d hardly noticed it, but now that Hawke had pointed it out he could not ignore the pain and stiffness in the far side of his left hand. He held it out to Hawke, who removed the gauntlet before taking it in his own hand and closing his eyes. Fenris gritted his teeth as his nerves woke up and he regained feeling in his fingers. It was not a pleasant sensation.

“ _Mages_ ,” he muttered with contempt as Hawke rubbed at the knuckles of the three affected fingers to make sure they were usable again before letting go of Fenris’s hand. Fenris stood and buckled his gauntlet back on.

“You’re welcome.”

Fenris stiffened where he stood, facing away from Hawke. Yes, denigrating the skills that had just saved his life was the perfect way to show gratitude. The mother Fenris did not remember would be so proud of his manners.

“I—”

“I agree, you know.”

Hawke’s tone was unreadable, and Fenris turned back toward him, one eyebrow raised. “About what?”

Hawke stood and shrugged casually. “Mages.”

When Fenris snorted, Hawke gave him an appraising look.

“You expect me defend them.” It was not a question. “As if I haven’t spent the past two weeks hunting them down and killing them for the Templars.”

Fenris shrugged. “They are your kind.”

“‘My kind’?” Something in Hawke’s eyes hardened very slightly. “Ah, I’d forgotten. ‘What does magic touch that it does not spoil?’” He flashed a humorless smile. “Your skin, for one.” Hawke nodded to the bloody bandages on the bench where Fenris had been sitting.

Not the wisest example.

“My skin.” Fenris laughed with as much humor as Hawke’s smile had contained. His skin burned as blue flickered across it, emphasizing his point.

“Hey, I just fixed it. I didn’t make it pretty.”

_Pretty_ , Fenris thought bitterly. Yes, the magic that had been forced into his skin against his will was _pretty_. Of course it was; Danarius had designed it so.

When Hawke smirked, Fenris gave him a fierce glare. This man was supposed to be his friend, and he was making light of the most obvious and painful sign of Fenris’s slavery. The _magic_ that meant no matter what happened or how long it had been since his escape, he could never feel truly free.

Hawke gave him a challenging look, and something inside Fenris snapped. He slammed Hawke against the nearest wall. Hawke might have been bigger and taller, but he was also slower, and Fenris was no weakling. He had taken the lives of far more formidable men than Hawke with little effort.

Fenris bared his teeth in his fury. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Hawke’s smirk widened, apparently not bothered in the slightest that he had been thrown against solid stone. “Call you pretty?”

“You _know_ what you’re doing,” Fenris growled. “Stop it.”

But Hawke just kept smirking like this was all a joke. Fenris was more than angry; he was _hurt_. He had thought that he’d found someone he could trust. Someone who was sympathetic to the things that had happened to him. Apparently he’d been wrong.

The magic that burned in his skin welled to the surface again, sudden and sharp. His hand was pressed against Hawke’s chest. Everything was that _blue_ he hated so much, and then—

Lips pressed against his. Strong, insistent, utterly unexpected. A hand encircled his wrist, stopping his gauntleted fingers from piercing through the tenuous layers of leather armor and skin that shielded Hawke’s heart.

The kiss broke.

“Would you mind doing that a few feet to the left?” Hawke nodded down at Fenris’s hand. “It’s just that crushing people’s hearts from inside their chests tends to produce quite a lot of blood, and this throw rug has been in my family for generations. I’d hate for my poor mother to lose a son and a priceless heirloom in one day.” Fenris could hear the smile in Hawke’s voice, which was low but somehow light at the same time.

Fenris said nothing. He hardly knew what to think, let alone what to say. Seconds ago he had been angry. Furious. He was sure of it. But now…

He glanced up at Hawke, who was still smiling, but it was in a way Fenris had never seen before. It did something to the pit of Fenris’s stomach. He felt heat rise in his cheeks and immediately looked down at the floor and focused his eyes intently on the heirloom rug.

Infuriatingly, Hawke chuckled. With the sharp tips of the fingers of Fenris’s gauntlet still cutting into his thin chestpiece, Hawke nudged his hips against Fenris’s. Though he could not feel much thanks to clothing, belts, and armor, the suggestive nature of the gesture, coupled with the lingering sensation of Hawke’s lips on his and the smile he had given him, was enough to send a shiver through Fenris’s body.

Hawke dipped his head. Hot breath tickled Fenris’s ear.

“Perhaps I can convince you to put off killing me for an hour or two?” Teeth dragged along the edge, toward his ear’s pointed tip. “As a favor to a friend.”

Fenris’s eyes slid shut and he unconsciously tilted his head toward Hawke’s mouth. His hand fell away from Hawke’s chest, where five small cuts were left in the leather.

Fenris nodded absently, distracted by the fact that Hawke’s tongue was sliding along his neck near his throat, tracing his tattoos from the feel of it. He suddenly didn’t care at all that Hawke thought they were pretty. Deft fingers were unbuckling the straps that held his gauntlet to his arm. Then he heard it clatter to the floor, the impact muffled slightly by the rug beneath their feet. The other followed.

Another kiss, bolder this time. Teeth nipping at his lower lip. Fenris inhaled sharply through his nose. One of Hawke’s arms encircled his waist, pulling him closer.

No. Not here. Someone could walk through the door...

Fenris pulled away as much as Hawke would let him and looked up at him anxiously. Hawke’s usually brilliant blue eyes were darkened by large pupils, and they had a mischievous gleam in them as he smiled down at Fenris.

“I....” Fenris’s voice felt thick in his throat.

Hawke nodded and let him go. Then he strolled casually over to the staircase. When Fenris didn’t follow, he looked back and winked at him before climbing the stairs. Fenris hesitated for several seconds, trying to figure out what he was doing. This seemed at once like the best and worst idea he had ever entertained.

He stepped through the bedroom door and Hawke nodded for him to shut it behind them. Fenris had just enough time to admire how much more tastefully decorated the room was than his own before he was pushed back against the wall next to the door and pinned by Hawke’s larger form. He found himself tipping his chin up to meet Hawke’s lips, out of instinct or experiences he had forgotten, he didn’t know. He also didn’t care.

This seemed to please Hawke, because the kiss soon became deeper, almost possessive. He nudged his hips against Fenris’s again and slipped his fingers into his hair. Fenris’s stomach reacted as if the ground had dropped from beneath his feet. He was excited. He was terrified. He was _shaking_ —Maker curse it!—and he just wanted to stop thinking and focus on _feeling_. It was too hot in the room. No, it was too cold. Hawke’s fingers were unbuckling the straps of his chestpiece and removing it without pulling away from his lips. Impressive. Then the metal was on the floor. Then his belt.

He couldn’t stop shaking, and soon Hawke was softening his kisses and petting his hair to soothe him. Far from soothing, Fenris found this gentle treatment patronizing. Perhaps he was overwhelmed, but he didn’t need coddling. He would show Hawke that.

Without warning, Fenris bit Hawke’s lower lip, hard enough to catch him off guard but not to do any real damage. He used the distraction to throw his weight so that he was the one pinning Hawke to the wall. He slid his teeth along the skin of the mage’s neck and—

The _mage_. This fact was emphasized strongly as Fenris was thrown backward by an invisible force. Hawke watched with a smirk on his reddened lips as Fenris stumbled and fell onto the bed in a rather undignified manner. He tried to sit up, but Hawke made a complex gesture with his hands, and Fenris was pushed rather forcefully back down onto the bed.

“Cheat,” he muttered in annoyance.

Hawke chuckled as he removed his own boots. “Your sunny disposition is one of your most charming features.”

Fenris lifted his head and watched Hawke rid himself of his thin armor as he approached the bed, so that when he stood before Fenris they were both only in tunics and trousers. It felt like much less clothing than it should have, even though Fenris was still technically armored in thick leather. It was difficult to process what was happening, let alone know what to do about it. The sheets and blankets smelled like Hawke; Fenris was surrounded by his scent. A smell shouldn’t have such an effect on him, but coupled with the expression on Hawke’s face…

_Maker, help me_ move. Fenris swallowed thickly, fighting the nervousness that was paralyzing him. He sat up again and grabbed Hawke’s wrists before the mage could use magic on him again. Hawke, caught by surprise, fell to his knees in front of the bed, but he was still smiling. Fenris, emboldened by Hawke’s annoyingly unfaltering smirk, leaned in and kissed him, rather roughly. He gave Hawke’s lower lip a warning nip before breaking the kiss. He didn’t enjoy being made fun of.

Hawke made a pleased sound, then moved his lips to Fenris’s ear.

“You’re hurting my wrists.”

In spite of himself, Fenris shivered at the feeling of Hawke’s hot breath against his ear. He said nothing.

“Come on, let me go.” Hawke slid his tongue along the edge of Fenris’s ear and said sweetly, “Please? I promise I won’t do any more magic.”

Fenris considered for a moment, during which time Hawke bit gently on the tip of his hear. His eyelids fluttered shut and he relaxed his grip. Hawke freed his wrists and began unfastening Fenris’s tunic. Determined not to be intimidated, Fenris worked on extricating Hawke from his, which was one piece that slipped over his head. Hawke tugged at Fenris’s undershirt, and a minute later they were both bare-chested. Hawke stared at Fenris’s hated tattoos intently enough that Fenris’s face felt hot.

“Pretty,” said Hawke, and Fenris was unable to decide if he was upset that Danarius’s work had been paid a compliment or flattered that his body had been given one. The look in Hawke’s eyes made him decide on the latter. Fenris allowed himself to admire Hawke’s form as well. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen men without shirts before, of course, but this was wholly different. It was Hawke, and they were alone in his bedroom, and they were _kissing_ , and—

Hawke’s fingers moved to unfasten Fenris’s armored trousers, and a hot shiver of anxious excitement coursed through him. Hawke placed his palm against Fenris’s chest and pressed him down onto the bed without magic. Fenris didn’t fight it. The leather was being removed, and he was staring up at the canopy of Hawke’s bed wondering where his nervousness had gone.

The sensation of his smallclothes being slid down his legs caused him to lift his head suddenly. What he saw made his face grow hot and cause a strong pang of desire to strike the pit of his stomach. Hawke was kneeling between his legs, gazing at his bare skin with lustful admiration.

“I was wondering if you had those tattoos _everywhere_.” There was amusement in Hawke’s low voice. “But it seems part of you was spared.”

Fenris flushed more intensely and closed his eyes.

“I suppose this part is pretty enough on its own.”

Maker, this was _torture_.

“Hawke.” Fenris’s voice sounded strange and hoarse to his own ears.

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

Hawke chuckled lowly, but obeyed. He shifted his arms to rest on Fenris’s knees and then—

Heat engulfed him, soft and wet, and Fenris gasped in surprise. The gasp was quickly followed by a low groan of pleasure. It was an undignified noise, but as Hawke’s head began to move Fenris decided that he would be willing to lose a great deal of pride for this feeling. Soon he was emitting moans and whimpers in time to the movement of Hawke’s mouth. Then he was unconsciously rocking his hips up, trying to get deeper.

The fingers of one of his hands found Hawke’s hair and callously pulled it free from the tie that usually kept it out of the mage’s eyes (smart thing to do when you routinely conjure _fire_ ) so he could grip it for leverage. The free strands fell and brushed against Fenris’s hips. He leaned his head up and chanced a glance down at Hawke, but the sight was too much, and his head felt too heavy, so he lay it back down.

Hawke increased his pace slightly in increments. Every so often he would tease with his tongue and Fenris would grip the roots of his hair firmly in protest: He didn’t have the patience for that now. He needed _more_. He needed Hawke to never, _ever_ stop. He needed—

Fenris’s back arched and his body froze as a wave of intense pleasure coursed through him. He let out a long groan, then fell back onto the bed, panting and boneless. Only when his muscles began to relax did he realize how tense they had been.

He shivered a few times, and then Hawke pulled away. He leaned over so that Fenris could see his face through half-lidded eyes, and swallowed. He licked his lips pointedly and smirked. Fenris would have rolled his eyes if he could have opened them properly. Instead he caught Hawke’s arm and hauled him up to lie next to him.

“Feel better?” Hawke whispered, though there was no one to overhear them. His self-satisfied smirk was set firmly in place.

“Mn.” Fenris nodded absently. The corner of his mouth turned up as he met Hawke’s lust-darkened eyes. “Shall I return the favor?”


End file.
